


Nearly Lost Everything

by a_chilleus



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Attacks, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Pre-Relationship, but really can be read as platonic too, i like them both as a couple and as friends and as more-than-any-human-language-can-define, i'm just projecting my issues onto my faves tbh, it's sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-31 12:33:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19426075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_chilleus/pseuds/a_chilleus
Summary: Aziraphale found himself dwelling rather frequently on the *narrowness* of their narrow escape from doom.





	Nearly Lost Everything

Aziraphale was reorganising his bookshelf, for the first time in nearly five hundred years. Of course, it was a pointless exercise – the shelves were always a mess again within weeks of finishing, and, as Crowley pointed out, Aziraphale could easily find any book he needed with a miracle anyway. But that wasn’t the point. It was a task he actually quite enjoyed, under the right circumstances: handling each book in his vast collection and flipping through well-worn pages, and then the satisfaction of a job well done, with everything in its proper place. The comfort of knowing that things were in their Proper Places really could never be overstated. Like the Earth, for instance: everything was back to normal, as if that nasty End of the World business had never happened. At least as far as the humans were concerned, anyway.

The thing about narrowly avoiding the Apocalypse was that, once the relief and exhausted exhilaration had worn off, it was quite difficult to readjust to normality. Aziraphale had spent an entire decade fretting and planning and preparing, never quite allowing himself to relax into optimism despite his side’s insistence that they would win, and to suddenly no longer have to do that was… well, he didn’t quite know what to do with himself. The first few weeks were spent celebrating, of course – revelling in every glorious human invention and pastime and foodstuff, lounging on the grass in Regent’s Park reading aloud to Crowley from his favourite books, and letting the demon take him on long drives, belting along to Vivaldi’s Bohemian Rhapsody (which he had to admit he had become quite fond of despite himself). As summer turned to autumn, they took to spending long evenings in Aziraphale’s bookshop, debating all of the points of the Plan that their newfound lack of loyalty to either side allowed them to talk about without fear. However, once those initial weeks had passed, and the glow of a world just saved had faded, Aziraphale found himself dwelling rather frequently on the _narrowness_ of their narrow escape from doom.

The thing is, he had very nearly lost everything. The world to which he had grown so attached, the humans who had invented such weird and ridiculous sources of joy, and the demon who had been his best friend, companion, life partner, whatever, for six thousand years. Not just best friend, in fact, but _only_ friend. The other angels didn’t especially like him, humans tended to regard him with confused amusement more than true friendship, and he wasn’t entirely sure how the Almighty felt about him and was rather scared to find out. Yet here was this _demon_ , of all things, who had, since the beginning, seemed to truly appreciate him. Not that he had always realised that, of course; it wasn’t like Crowley made a habit of being affectionate, and it had taken a very long time for it to truly occur to him that it was _possible_ for anyone to appreciate him for _him,_ and not just for how many Good and Holy works he could perform. If he lost Crowley, he would be entirely alone in the world.

This was a bad train of thought to follow, he knew. He noticed that he was pacing, and forced himself to stop. He picked up a random book from his untidy desk, but the words swam before his eyes and soon he threw the book down in frustration. The small room felt unnaturally warm for the middle of September; he loosened his bow tie, but it hardly helped. He swallowed uncomfortably and shook his head. What had he been trying to do? Right, yes, the bookshelves. Better not let himself get distracted by his thoughts like that again, it rarely ended well these days. He picked up the nearest book: _Jane Eyre_. Not his favourite Brontë, but there was something in the “no net ensnares me” line that always brought a tear to his eye. Fiction, so that’s the other wall, B for Brontë, that was the shelf nearest his desk… his eye fell on his telephone, half buried under piles of loose paper. He should probably phone Crowley, just to make sure he was ok. He was halfway through dialling the number before he caught himself – no, there was no reason at all that Crowley wouldn’t be ok, they had averted Armageddon and their sides hadn’t bothered them since the whole hellfire and holy water ordeal. There was really nothing to worry about. He put the phone down firmly and reached up to put away the book. He was amassing a rather large collection of Brontës now; he regretted not having met them when they were alive, they seemed such intelligent young women but the 19th century had been rather busy. He couldn’t remember if that had been his fault or Crowley’s. He quickly put the book away; his head felt rather… heavy, and unbalanced, and he steadied himself against the wall. Once he had caught his breath, he reached down for the phone – no, that wasn’t it, he was supposed to be sorting out the books, not worrying about – he shook his head but it only made the dizzy feeling worse, so he took a deep breath and then headed back to the still unsorted pile. He reached for the next book, and stared at it blankly. He blinked a few times. It didn’t help. _Fuck_. He just needed to be sure that Crowley was ok, that the other side hadn’t figured out the body-swap trick and tried again to… he took another deep breath, stared at the book again, and then threw it across the room as hard as he could. He sat down heavily in his armchair and buried his face in his hands. The room was spinning, and he felt hot and cold all over, and his hands were trembling, and _fuck_ it all could have gone so badly wrong and there was no way of knowing what either side would do if they – what was he even doing still in this bookshop?! They knew where he was, and they would know where to find Crowley too! He had to warn Crowley, tell him to leave his flat immediately, find somewhere the other demons wouldn’t be able to trace – he stood up shakily, pushed a pile of papers out of the way, picked up the phone, and hurriedly began to dial with trembling hands. Damn his stupid sweaty palms, slowing him down.

_Helloooo! Anthony Crowley is unable to reach the phone right now because he is up to no good with far more exciting people than you, so don’t bother calling back, and know that I almost certainly won’t bother listening if you leave a message at the tone. Ciao!_

Aziraphale swore loudly and blinked back tears, beginning to dial again before he stopped dead. Stupid angel, stupid fucking moronic angel – if he contacted Crowley he would put him in more danger! If the other demons saw Crowley with Aziraphale _again_ , after everything that had happened, they’d have even more reason to punish him. He found himself pacing once again, his feet carrying him round in circles almost against his will. There was nothing he could do. For all he knew Crowley’s flat could be swarming with demons right this second, striking right when his friend least expected, to carry out their punishment on him. In fact, that was probably why he hadn’t answered his phone – he was probably being marched back down to Hell right this second, another bath of holy water waiting for him. Aziraphale choked back tears, and sank to the floor, breathing shakily. He gave up trying to hold back his panic, and curled into a ball, sobbing.

Five minutes later, the door swung open, but Aziraphale didn’t hear it. He didn’t hear the cheerful call from the doorway, either.

“Hey, Angel!” Crowley looked around at the half empty bookshelves, and at the pile of papers hastily shoved off the desk. He could hear crying, but it took a moment to figure out where the sound was coming from. He flipped the ‘open’ sign to ‘closed,’ and carefully picked his way between the stacks of books, and sure enough, curled into a ball behind the desk was Aziraphale, hands fisted in his hair and face red. Immediately he knelt by his side, but didn’t touch his friend.

“Fuck, Angel, what’s happened?” his voice was unusually soft, but there was a note of panic. “Who do I – who do I have to enact a, uh, hideous revenge on?” Crowley tried to chuckle but it came out more like a cough.

“Crowley! No – you need to – you can’t be here – you – ” Aziraphale frantically sat up and tried to control his sobs, but he couldn’t quite seem to get enough air into his lungs to speak, and his words weren’t coming coherently.

“What? What’s happened? Are you injured?” Crowley looked down at Aziraphale’s clothes, but could see no blood, and when he turned to look around at the bookshop, he could see no sign of a fight.

“No, I’m – _fuck_ , Crowley, if they find you – I can’t lose you again, you have to – you have to go somewhere safe! They know where you live – they know you might – that you come here!” Aziraphale grabbed Crowley’s hand, and the demon startled but then squeezed Aziraphale’s hand in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture.

“Crowley, I can’t lose you again – I nearly – you were gone and now – ”

“Angel, you’re babbling,” Crowley was beginning to understand what was happening. Aziraphale seemed to be having some sort of panic attack. He’d seen this happen to humans before, and he half wondered if it was supposed to be able to happen to angels, but he shook off this thought in favour of helping his companion.

“I can’t lose you,” Aziraphale was holding onto Crowley’s hand as if it was all that was holding Crowley in this plane, and the demon had no intention of letting go.

“Hey – look at me,” Crowley said quietly, and the angel blinked back tears, “Just look at me – I’m here, you can see I’m here, and I’m safe, ok? And so are you.” Aziraphale took a shaky breath.

“But – Crowley, what if they find you here?”

“Then we’ll be ready for them. We beat them before, we can do it again. But – Aziraphale, did something happen? Why are you so scared?” Crowley looked around again, but still could see no sign of any altercation. He shifted so that he was sat cross-legged next to the angel, and, still holding Aziraphale’s hand in his left, slowly began to rub circles into the angel’s back with his right.

“I… I don’t know. I was sorting out my shelves, and then… I needed to know if – but then you didn’t answer your phone, so…” Aziraphale trailed off. It was stupid, really. He could see that now. The soft touch of Crowley’s hand on his back somehow seemed to be helping his mind to slow down, at least a little, enough for him to see how irrational he was being.

“Breathe with me, Aziraphale, ok? In and out, like this, yeah?” Crowley didn’t understand why the angel was struggling with that – as supernatural beings they really weren’t supposed to actually _need_ to breathe. But perhaps the mind really could overpower the body, even when neither the mind nor the body was technically human. Crowley breathed slowly, exaggerating slightly to make it easier for Aziraphale to copy, the way he’d seen humans do.

Aziraphale did his best to copy Crowley, but what helped more was focusing on Crowley’s hands – any more than that was too overwhelming, but the demon’s hands were cold, and slightly rough, and gentle. He didn’t try to speak again for several minutes.

“Angel?” Crowley asked, once Aziraphale seemed to be breathing normally again, and had stopped crying. The angel sat up straight.

“I’m sorry about this,” Aziraphale said, “I don’t know what came over me. Quite pathetic.” Crowley furrowed his brow.

“I wouldn’t say that. Clearly something set this off. Mind if we talk somewhere more comfortable than the bookshop floor, though?”

“Right, uh, yes, sorry,” Aziraphale stood up and hurried back into his study, clearing the chairs of books and papers so that the two could sit. His hands were still shaking, but far less so than before. He flexed his fingers awkwardly but the tremor returned as soon as he sat down. Crowley sat down in the chair across from him, and raised an eyebrow at the angel.

“So… what happened?” His voice would have sounded casual to an unfamiliar observer, but it was a careful facsimile of his usual manner. The sight of Aziraphale in the foetal position on the floor of his shop had shaken him to his core.

“Well, I… I was reorganising my bookshelves, and then… well, I was going to phone you, to check you were ok….”

“Why wouldn’t I be ok?” Crowley’s brow furrowed deeper, unable to hide his worry.

“I don’t know! It’s so stupid, I just suddenly felt like I really had to check, and then when you didn’t answer I thought – well, your side might come back for you! They know where you live, it isn’t safe in your flat any more…” Aziraphale paused and took a deep breath, and Crowley scooted his chair closer. “I can’t lose you again. Things have been so _good_ and _normal_ lately that it’s frankly suspicious!”

“Angel, if something happens, we’ll take them on, ok? Like I said – we did it before, we can do it again.” Crowley hesitated, then pushed his awkwardness aside, and reached across to take Aziraphale’s hand in his. “I guess it makes sense for you to get worried now – I mean, I thought I’d lost you for a minute there, what with the … the fire, and all…”

“Oh God Crowley I’m so sorry,” Aziraphale breathed, but Crowley shook his head.

“Don’t, Angel, you’re safe and it’s all ok. I can’t pretend I haven’t worried about you too, though, since then. Would it help if… ‘Scuse me just inviting myself in and all,” he smirked, then sighed, “Would it help if I stayed here for the night? To… you know, keep you company, and so you can see I’m still here?” Crowley bit his lip, as though worried he had overstepped a boundary. Aziraphale, though, smiled in relief.

“That’s a great idea,” he said, then paused.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m just… it wouldn’t be a bother, would it? I mean, you come in and I’m… on the floor… and then you have to deal with me all night…” 

Crowley sighed. “Angel, has it occurred to you that I might, potentially, actually quite enjoy your company?” He squeezed Aziraphale’s hand in his, then let go and ran a hand through his hair. “And that maybe… I, you know, care about you?” He looked down at his hands and worried his lip.

“Crowley, you are just – just wonderful,” Aziraphale said quietly. Just as Crowley was about to mutter something about his boss not approving of that, he was suddenly crushed in a tight hug. The demon gasped in surprise; he extricated himself from the angel’s arms, repositioned himself in his armchair, and then beckoned the rather hurt-looking angel back.

“If you’re going to hug me, at least let me breathe,” Crowley said in mock-anger, even as his hands found their way into Aziraphale’s hair, gently playing with the white-blond locks. Aziraphale sighed contentedly.

“Thank you,” the angel whispered, “for everything.”

“I’ll always be here,” Crowley replied, “I’m never leaving, no matter what.”


End file.
